


For The Greater Good

by hanzhoe



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ethically Unsound, F/F, Fluff, High Femme Reader, Indian Reader, Lifetime Relationship, Power Couple Scientists, Trans Friendly, You're both bad people but you love each other so it works out, morally questionable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 14:25:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14979071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanzhoe/pseuds/hanzhoe
Summary: You'll go to any lengths to push the boundaries of what the Vishkar corporation's technology is capable of. She'll forgo any law in her single-minded pursuit of genetic knowledge.God, did you marry well.





	For The Greater Good

**Author's Note:**

> i'm gay

The first time you meet her also happens to be the last for quite a while. You're both young, six or seven at most, and your respective parents are having a meeting over dinner in the Vishkar complex your parents bankrolled, designed, and built themselves. You would have been allowed to attend the meeting if you so wished, your parents have always been proud of the prodigy they made and eager to show you off at the slightest provocation, but you know that the conversation will flow more freely with alcohol present and you, not.

It hardly matters, anyway, the hard light flowers you've seamlessly blended into the arrangement on the dining table have been streaming to an encrypted drive in your room for the past hour. You'll peruse at your leisure later, pick apart body language and words behind words behind smile, for now you know the O'Deorains have brought their very  _ own _ little prodigy with them and you've been raised to know the value of Networking.

To your great interest and not at all surprise, you find the girl--' _ Moira', your parents had said, handing you a file too large for your childish hands. You took it anyway, to imply incompetence was a punishable offence, after all _ \--with a datapad she's tapping away at and several specimen jars around her in the lush, waist-high undergrowth that fades into forest  after a few more metres.

"You're not supposed to be able to get past the security barrier." You say, with all the amused haughtiness a pre-teen can muster. It's a fair amount, perhaps due in part to your genes being 90% Pure Haughtiness from Concentrate. Moira spares you all of half a second's worth of a glance from behind circular lenses before returning to her work, long enough for you to note her mismatched eyes. ' _ Heterochromia Iridium _ ,' you muse to yourself in the space between speech. You wonder if it's natural or if her parents were as keen as yours on the subject of The Perfect Heir and threw in some aesthetic choices for 'fun'.

"Neither are you." She states and you smile at that, sitting opposite her and her miniature fort of jars, not caring that your lehenga's getting dirty in the same way she doesn't seem to care about the state her suit is in after hunting down the creatures she's collected. She continues tapping at the pad and you turn to inspecting her chosen specimens, taking her lack of protest at your joining her for the reluctant approval it is. Somehow, with what you correctly assume is 'great difficulty and determination', she's managed to hand-pick the mutants of several insect species around and you lean closer to observe in rapt attention. A tiger centipede lounges across a twig set in mud in the second largest, it splits in two around the middle of its trunk and ends in twin heads and more legs than it knows what to do with. You watch with a distinct lack of squeamishness as both heads busy themselves with the remains of a mouse and move on to the next container, its denizen being a scorpion with a carapace near-transparent, all inner-workings in stark relief against milky-white transluence. By the time you tear your eyes away from such a fascinating find a solid fifteen minutes have passed in relative silence between you, a gentle breeze through the leaves and grass undercut with the electric hum of the security barrier in the near distance all the sound present. In retrospect this is what makes your exclamation feel so loud against the night air.

"Oh!" You tap a small jar with an equally small finger, watching the discoloured water bug skitter away from the sound as you do so, "These are actually quite nice if cooked well!"

You will forever remember this moment as the first time you got a proper look into Moira O'Deorain's eyes. She will forever remember this moment as the first time anyone told her something she didn't already know. She stops typing and sets her pad down by her loafered feet, attention thoroughly on you.

"... _ Really _ now?"

 

\---

 

This is how it goes: she's here in your family's complex for a week, company that matches thought-for-thought is a rarity to both of you, you have a large private workshop you're more than willing to clear a space for her in, and you always keep a spare lab coat around. She works on her genetics analysis and dissections, you work on your hard-light projection and preservation machinery, all in companionable silence punctuated intermittently by huffs of annoyance with your chosen projects or interesting facts thrown across the room to be reciprocated. It's the closest to friendship either of you has ever come with anyone.

To your mutual surprise and pleasure it's discovered that you've both planted bugs (perhaps more literally in her case) to listen in on the adult dinner conversations that concern business, politics, and thinly veiled 'my child is a better success than your child' competitions. You spend your own dinners away from the politicking, instead together, watching the footage and analysing it with intense interest in the tidbits of  _ real _ information you can seperate from the manipulative chaff. It's new to value another's input on a subject and neither of you can bring yourselves to dislike it when the other points out a tic they're more familiar with on their parent, despite how common a recourse disdain usually is. Between you it's no challenge to puzzle out exactly the business deal going on between your parents: hers want funding for a grant and research facility, yours will give it on the stipulation they get access to the program's best and brightest.

All too soon, seven days have passed. As you say your goodbyes Moira hands you a covered specimen jar and lets her lips twitch ever so slightly into a smaller version of the first smile you ever pulled from her during a long conversation about the hypothetical applications of her genetic memory research and your hard-light technology in organic matter. The sight of it is seared into your memory and you recall it fondly as you take the jar and pass her her own gift, small and boxed carefully. She opens it on the flight back, undoing the Vishkar-blue ribbon and finding a small generator, the note it comes with details its purpose: a near-never ending supply of hard-light 'gloves', sterile enough for all her dissections and handling of creatures. It's thoughtful, perfect for her, and perhaps her first ever gift. She wonders if you like yours for a moment before banishing the idea from her mind. Either you do or you don't, there's nothing to be done about it now and dwelling on it imbues it with a sentiment she finds sits uncomfortably in her chest.

 

\---

 

You transfer the translucent scorpion from its specimen jar to a terrarium you created next to your bedroom desk and let yourself smile at the fact that Moira gave you the creature that so thoroughly caught your attention the first time you met despite how much she loathes to part with her test subjects. A mouse dangles frantically from between your thumb and forefinger and the scorpion eyes it with interest as you think over how you'll decorate the tank for its sole inhabitant.

_ 'She's sweet to have noticed,' _ you muse as the arachnid leans up on its back legs and snatches the animal from your hand with a secondary, projectile mouth in possession of an alarming amount of teeth.

You name her  _ Bhoot _ .

 

\---

 

\------

 

\---

 

Fireworks rain overhead, but you pay them little mind, it's your 18th birthday but with the lavish party being held, you'd be forgiven for thinking it a national holiday. So far the guests have been indulged in food, festivities, and a presentation of your latest advancements in hard-light technology that will certainly keep Vishkar at the forefront of international machinery for decades to come. Far be it from you to dislike giving in-depth talks and walkthroughs of your work to a captive audience, but something has you set  _ on edge _ and it's not the Omnic Threat you can feel cresting over the horizon. It isn't until you hear the sliding door to the balcony open and shut in one smooth motion followed by measured, strong steps crossing the balcony, announcing Moira's presence at your back that you realise exactly what it was you felt with all those eyes on you.

Your  _ technology _ wasn't the only thing on display.

You take the proffered flute of absurdly expensive champagne from her hands with quiet thanks, chewing absent-mindedly on your bottom lip as you do so. Her mismatched eyes flick down to the motion for less than a heartbeat before she asks what's wrong in her customary manner.

"Elucidate."

You huff a small laugh and sip your drink, casting your gaze back out over the Vishkar complex you've spent so long living in and the sky full of unnecessary displays of grandeur. ' _ Silent fireworks,' _ you think to yourself, ' _ Pointless _ . _ ' _

"Thank you for coming." You dodge, Moira sideeyes you as she moves to stand at your shoulder, leaning so her elbows rest against the hard-light balcony railing and joining you in looking out over the fireworks. It took time and effort she never thought she'd expend, but she's learnt how to read the exploded diagram of your words and actions, how to collate them into what you're actually feeling and thinking.

"I've hit a lull in my research, I had the time." A Lie. A game you play. You'd said the same at the talk she led in France. It's your turn to sideeye her, taking her own sip of champagne and seeming utterly unflappable despite the breeze ruffling her hair and blazer. She always looks like a Leyendecker come to life, a fact that's only become more apparent over the past three years with the onset of her towering height mixing with her taste for tailored suits.

"Is that legal?" You ask, still evading her initial question and nodding to the alcohol in her hand while somehow keeping a straight face. Moira pauses mid-sip and slides her gaze to yours, arching a single sharp, red eyebrow at the question. It's just like her to lean in such a way  she can still make eye contact in this manner. A shiver runs up your spine at the look, but to your benefit the wind still rustles through the trees in the gardens below.

"In two months." She replies dryly as she sets the flute down on the balcony's ledge.  Her 18th isn't long behind yours and you intend to do the same as she did, setting aside your projects for once to be in Dublin, among her family and business associates for the occasion. Socialising with others for the sake of her company.

There's a joke here and like all your mutual attempts at humour it will never be explained to outsiders, this one however is simple enough: nothing any O'Deorain or Vishkar has ever done has been  _ legal _ .

You share an indulgent smile for a moment before your previous concerns wash back to the fore and you drain your flute in one fell swoop, after which you set the drained glass next to hers on the balcony ledge and turn your back to it, leaning against the hard-light filigree and ignoring the slight tingle from the alcohol and her eyes on you.

"You know I don't like working with other people." You bluster, and you can feel the eyeroll from beside you.

"It's understandable.  _ Unsurprising _ ."

"To us." You snort, "I think they're plotting to have me  _ collaborate _ ." The word is delivered with the same dripping disdain that the two of you use for things like  _ governmental oversight _ or  _ tight budget _ or  _ deadline _ . Moira makes a noise of disgruntlement on your behalf and slides her flute over to you, the scraping sound drawing your attention before you take it with a grateful flicker of a smile and drain the crystal, painted lips leaving a light, coloured tint over the space where hers had been. She watches the action like a hawk and you know it, another shiver shooting up your spine as you resolutely make no eye contact. It's because of this you don't see the flurry of movement it triggers, only suddenly feeling a warm weight draped over your shoulders where previously they were bare to the air.

The blazer far too large for you could be seen as simple friendship by anyone else, but you've long since been able to solve the equation of Moira O'Deorain for emotion, a level of unscientific care for the wellbeing of those around her has never been something she's been blessed with for anyone other than yourself. You surreptitiously let yourself drown in it a bit more, nose against fabric. It smells like the borrowed lab coat she left in your workshop a decade ago, medical disinfectant cutting through the more human scent of shampoo. It reminds you how much you miss her when she's not around.

"I wasn't cold." You say, pulling the blazer tighter around you. Moira, to her credit, only looks pointedly at your actions in lieu of a reply and makes to leave. Your throat tightens at a little at the idea of being left outside alone, more accurately,  _ without her _ . She takes the empty champagne flutes from the balcony and nods her head toward the small dining set present on all of them, urging you to sit with a simple movement.

"You haven't eaten since this morning, have you?" Her gaze narrows at you and you laugh a little at her unimpressed look. "Wait here." With that, she exits and you shake your head fondly at her retreating back.  _ 'As if _ she _ eats during a breakthrough _ . _ '  _ You sit (because of course you do) and worry the plain silver band around your left wrist, a gift for your 16th, and wonder just when exactly it was that you started to feel  _ longing _ for your friend's presence.

When she returns with a single slice of extravagant cake on a plate and skewers a corner piece on a fork, holding it out for you to eat from, you begin to wonder if it's a  _ friend's _ presence you've been longing for or something else.

Your lips close around the prongs of the fork in Moira's hand and neither one of you breaks eye contact as you swallow the cake, barely tasting it.  _ This _ flurry of movement you do see, being part of it as you are. The way she sets the cutlery down and stands in one fell swoop to move around the small table to your side, arm reaching for your waist. The way you chase her up to her full height, reaching a hand out to cup the side of her face and bring it in line with yours. The way you both know the kiss that you crash into has been coming for a long time, only held at bay by the fun you'd both been having in the game of flirting.

The way her hand slides to splay across the bare skin between your choli and lehenga and her fingertips curl the slightest to dig in, nails undoubtedly leaving half-moon indentations near your spine. You reciprocate in kind, as you always have, the hand that cupped her face moving to slip into the hair at the nape of her neck, manicured nails dragging against her skin and then her scalp. She curses into the kiss, you pull back and laugh as she huffs before Moira rests her forehead rests against yours and you both take a moment to catch your breath.

"So." You start, one arm loosely draped over her shoulder, the other hand playing with her hair nonchalantly.

"So?" She answers, a self-satisfied drawl present in her parroting as she tests her grip on you between the hand at your back and the one at your hip.

"My room, I assume?" Is all you say before smirking like you'd planned this and she puts her grip to the test, lifting you into a bridal carry.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr over [ Here](http://ofrawrites.tumblr.com/). i take requests and post smaller bits i don't feel warrant AO3 yet.


End file.
